Caught Myself
by slytherin-until-i-die
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is back from the dead, and John is determined never to let his best friend out of his sight again. But with Sherlock on a downward spiral that can only lead to his own destruction, can John save him from himself before it's too late? Drug abuse/angst/dark themes. Johnlock.


A normal day. That was how it had started out.

John Watson's fingertips traced the little boxes on the calendar as he counted them up, his breath hitching in his throat as his mind processed how long it had truly been since that fateful day. _The day of the fall_.

Two years. Five months. Thirteen days.

He looked around 221-B Baker Street, the humble flat that had become their... _his _home a little over three years ago, and had to suppress a smile over how little had changed. The place was a mess as ever, despite Mrs Hudson's constant grumbles and protests; small piles of clothing and useless, solitary articles littered the floor. The two windows were grubby, stained with the tracks of long-dry condensation that John had neither the time nor the inclination to remove. And on the wall, as slapdash and childlike as it had always been, the yellow spray-paint face smiled down at him, framed with holes made by several bullets fired from a Browning L9A1 pistol. He remembered how he had complained about them before, but now, as he sat down in the sunken leather armchair that felt familiar yet strangely cold and uninviting, John longed to hear those gunshots ring out through the building again. He longed to see Mrs Hudson's terrified face as she crashed up the stairs to the flat, demanding to know the source of the shocking noise. And, more than anything, John Watson longed to wake up in the morning to the sound of the smoke alarm and the aroma of burning human hair, or eyeballs, or fingers – whatever it was _he _chose to experiment with, whatever it was that he wanted. _Just one more time... _

But John was an intelligent man, quick and level-headed from his years of service on the front line. He knew there was no use in deluding himself into believing what was impossible. When a fellow soldier had been shot and left gravely wounded, it was imperative to, not only remain calm and collected, to focus on the next step and to keep your emotions tightly controlled, but also to accept when hope was lost and could not be regained. In some cases, this was not a difficult thing to accomplish. In others, it could be unimaginably tricky.

The death of Sherlock Holmes had triggered something within John that had never been present before. Rather than recognising the inevitable and taking the steps necessary to move forward and on with life, John's usually strategic brain had drawn an uncomfortable blank. There would be no quick fixes. There was no plan B. Sherlock Holmes was dead and, when he had fallen from the roof of their building, when he had collapsed onto the pavement in a gruesome pool of his own blood, he had taken a piece of John's heart with him and, despite how insignificant John had previously judged that piece to be, its absence had left him feeling achingly incomplete. Unable to accept the suicide of the man that had brought him to life since his post-Afghanistan relocation to London, John had simply tried to the best of his abilities to ignore it and, in doing so, sweep the entire ordeal under the carpet. If he could pretend that it hadn't really happened, perhaps one day he would truly begin to believe it himself. The last three years would float past as hazy memories, blurring and distorting and becoming numb in his mind over time, and John would emerge unscathed and continue with his life as though Sherlock Holmes had never been a part of it.

John laughed. _What happened to 'not deluding yourself into believing what was impossible?'_

He had good days and bad days. On good days, John was able to gather himself and to head out into London. Occasionally he would go to Angelo's and chat with the waitresses there, picking at his usual full English breakfast and feigning a sense of cheer. He dropped into the doctors' surgery from time to time, helping out with appointments when they were short-staffed and listening to Sarah, the receptionist John had had an on-and-off relationship with for several years, as she nattered away to him about how they should meet for coffee because they hadn't been out for too long. Sometimes he would run into Molly Hooper, who tended to be too distracted and detached from everything to hold any kind of conversation with... much like himself. Then John was able to return to 221-B, curl up in his bed and fall into a state of anaesthetized, dreamless sleep. And so it would go on.

John's bad days ranged from mildly awful to completely horrendous. These were the days when John felt particularly aware of how cold and empty the flat was, of how Mrs Hudson became quieter and more reserved as the months passed, of how Mycroft didn't send sleek black cars to collect him, or even just to check up on him, anymore. On bad days, John would fail to rouse himself from bed until gone midday, then sit around aimlessly in the flat until he lost all sense of time. John had found Sherlock's secret supply of cigarettes in a concealed drawer underneath the dining table shortly after his death and had taken to smoking them in a poor attempt to alleviate his stress, something he hadn't done since his 'rebellious' teenage years. On one of John's 'completely horrendous' days, he had moved too quickly and singed his skin with the lit end of the cigarette he held, leaving a perfect scalded circle on the inside of his left wrist. It hurt so much that, for several minutes, all John had thought about was the direct pain of the injury, his mental backlog of worry and grief temporarily fading into almost total obscurity. The beauty of this realisation had made him immediately light another cigarette and repeat the excruciating process, burning his inner forearm again and again, deliberately this time, until his skin was raw and bleeding and he almost blacked out from the pain. He didn't mind, though. This sort of pain, physical pain, he was equipped to deal with.

The memories of that particular day stung as they resurfaced. John rose swiftly from his seat, suddenly feeling restless and stifled, and headed through the wooden door to the cold landing outside.

"Mrs Hudson?" he called out, but received no response. Idly wondering if the kindly landlady would remember to pick up milk for the flat on her way home from wherever she was presently, John stepped back over the threshold. Aware of how chilly it was, the climate being fairly average for London in mid-October, he decided to swap his current attire of jeans and a thin, knitted camel-coloured jumper for something more weather-appropriate. The journey to his bedroom turned out to be rather pointless – his suave winter coat was not due to be collected from the dry cleaners until the following day, and the sack of dirty clothing he had dropped off at the launderette on the corner earlier on had obviously contained the majority of his items that were suitable for wearing out and about in the biting, icy cold. Sighing in light of his own incompetence, John dragged his feet back into the dusty living room, resigning himself to the fact that, for the sake of his health, it was likely he would have to stay in. But then an idea popped into his head.

For the first time in as long as John cared to remember, he held his head high and walked into the bedroom that had been Sherlock's. For a moment, he thought his mind could cope with returning to those familiar surroundings. Then an icy stake pierced John's heart, freezing and stinging him from deep within and reopening the gaping void he had struggled to hold together for so many months.

If John, and Lestrade, for that matter, had allowed the officers at Scotland Yard to carry out the full investigation and dwelling search they had so desperately wanted to, entering Sherlock's bedroom would not have hurt him so much now. But John and the affable Detective Inspector had insisted that 221-B Baker Street should not be turned into a crime scene, forcing that particular line of enquiry to be put on hold indefinitely and the contents of the bedroom to be left in peace. John inhaled sharply as he entered Sherlock's long-neglected private sanctuary, breathing in the lingering scent of his best friend that had meant so much to him but had, to John's awareness, known so little of it. The horizontal blinds that covered the window were closed as always, blocking out every ray of light excluding a beam that was given access by two forcibly separated pieces of light wood – the gap came just above John's head, exactly in line with where Sherlock's eyes would have been. _Typical_, thought John, feeling a pang of sentiment strike in the pit of his stomach. _Break the blinds to spy on the neighbours. Of course. _John couldn't bring himself to open up the wardrobe, to see the pristine articles of clothing that had adorned his best friend's body during their days together. He knew he would break down again – he'd try to order them in some way, to make sense of them, to work out precisely when and where Sherlock had worn each item and for what purpose.

Instead, John cast around the room and noticed the heavy navy blue duvet, coiled up and creased on the bed in the exact same state Sherlock had left it in the morning before he had died. Without thinking, he picked it up, folding it over his arm, leaving the bedroom and closing the door behind him.

When John reached the roof of the building, he shook out the duvet and draped it around himself, lowering his head and taking in the musk-and-lavender aroma that was all he had left to remind him of his best friend. He folded his arms and hugged it close to his body, his hands balling into fists, his emotions suddenly swelling up inside of him. John shuffled to the edge of the roof, his legs dangling limply down over the side of the building. _This is where he stood. _For a moment he felt like crying, like finally shedding the tears he had not once allowed to fall since Sherlock's death. He gazed down at Baker Street and at the rooftops of the buildings opposite, knowing that this was the last viewpoint Sherlock ever took before plunging to his death mere seconds later. John sobbed once, a broken, heart-wrenching sound, but still did not cry. Sherlock never cried; crying was for normal people, common people, two things he certainly had never been. So John decided to do what Sherlock was famous for – a consulting detective had to ask questions, didn't they?

"So why did you do it?" John asked nobody in particular, an icy breath of wind dancing across his face. He sighed. "I know you hated to admit it, but we were best friends, Sherlock. Best friends tell each other important things. If you had a lot going on, too much to deal with... well, what else did you think I was there for, you idiot?" John stopped abruptly, his anger bubbling up dangerously. He took a deep breath and felt another sob rip through his chest. "And now..." He trailed off, unable to make the words form properly on his lips. "And..." He tried again. "Now you're dead," he whispered into the cold air and, for the first time, a tear, a single, traitorous tear rolled down his cheek. "Now you're dead," he repeated slowly, "and I'm never going to see you again."

The generic sound of pealing bells chimed in the pocket of John's jeans. He sighed deeply, mournfully, before pulling out his mobile phone and staring at the little LED screen. He blinked slowly, then re-read the message. Once. Twice. Three times. _Impossible._

**You're wrong.**

**- SH**


End file.
